


Music (Move to the Rhythm)

by lysanatt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha!Remus, BDSM, Clubbing, Crossdressing, D/s, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus wants to take Severus dancing, but Severus doesn't dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music (Move to the Rhythm)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Snupin "Trading Places" challenge, for Zephre's delicious pic [Watching the Dancefloor](http://zephre.insanejournal.com/18344.html).
> 
> Beta by Imma and Nishitzono

You look at him and his eyes mesmerise you, making you unable to deny him what he wants. 'No,' you say, not wanting to allow him to do this to you, but the hunger in his eyes makes you change your mind. Your body has given him the answer, even before you are able to speak the word.

'Yes,' he moans, as if to take even your reply from you, to rule your words as well as your body. You ride him hard as revenge, not caring if it hurts you when you impale yourself on him over and over, almost unprepared, but you need to feel the power you have over him, the power of denial or acceptance of what he asks you. He knows it too, lost in pleasure under you, how you--generously as a king--give him what he needs. Pleasure. Love. Submission. You are his entirely, when you decide to be, sometimes brutal in your dismissal of his needs.

'You will wear this for me, in public?' he asks again, hoarsely, as he lets a hand slide over your pale neck and the collar which emphasises its length. He thrusts hard, his nails cutting into your skin, leaving little marks, half-moon shaped, blood-red.

'Yes,' you moan as you come, scratching a trail of broken pain down his chest, splashing come over him; semen mingling with blood, pleasure with pain. 'Yes!'

 

You watch his long fingers slide blood-red silk over slender legs. You watch lace and satin tighten and cling to a lean torso, and this moment you cannot express how much you adore the man who is doing this. For you. Black hair and dark red nipples match the colour of the expensive lingerie, contrasting the white skin. You have never seen him look so beautiful, every inch of silk emphasising every foot of long-lined body.

You tell him so, and he just laughs at you, unexpectedly. 'No, Remus,' he says. 'Never beautiful.'

'Have you looked in the mirror,' you ask. 'You couldn't be more wrong.'

'I haven't. I am doing this for you, not for me.'

He kneels down in front of you, waiting for you to make him yours, to take from him what he willingly offers you: himself. You smile when you take the collar, the symbol of the power you hold over him; the symbol of the power he holds. You both know it. With a word, he can leave you lost in ecstasy or render you utterly devastated. The power is his, the responsibility yours. Your failure, if he stops you, is worse than any denial, worse than any hurt. You dance on the knife's edge, pushing his borders, but never overstepping them. Never.

With a kiss, you close the collar around his neck, and he tilts his head, acknowledging your dominance. He looks down at the floor, hands crossed behind his back. 'Yours,' he tells you, and you smile as you slowly unbutton your shirt, letting the white cotton fall to the floor. You reach out, taking the soft lead from the table. 'Come,' you say, and attach the lead to the black leather collar, 'my Severus.'

 

The sound of the bass is deep and heavy, throbbing with the rhythm of your heart. It is simple, base music, urging your body to move, to dance, to get lost in the loud sound. But you don't dance. You only let go of the restraints your body has woven around itself when you are in your lover's arms. Only then you feel free, without mental shackles, without the almost debilitating self-consciousness you carry around like a movable prison. Black robes, black shirts, black boots, all buckled and buttoned and closed. But _he_ releases you, your lover. He unbuttons your body, unshackles your mind, frees your skin, and even if it is so hard to do this for him you are doing it anyway, because the feeling of his warm skin against your back and his hands around your waist is worth it. It is worth overcoming the shyness; worth living through the humiliation of being scantily clad in a room full of strangers, just to hear his praise, hear him tell you how much he wants you, needs you.

The music is deep and dark and the fabric of your corset and the silk stockings is soft, caressing your skin, almost as soft as his lips when they slide over your neck; velvety, like his words in your ear. 'I love how you look,' he whispers. 'I love how your hips and your waist become even more narrow. I love how your hipbones make little hills in the silk.' He purrs in your ear, dirty little words about how good you look, how tight your arse is, how he loves your moans when he fucks you. 'Later,' he says, 'I am going to pull your knickers away from between your legs, just a little, enough for me to be able to push my cock into your hot arse. And I am going to fuck you, here, while people are watching, not realising what we are doing, not until I make you come, and your face is contracting in orgasm, and your knickers are wet from your come.'

'Yes,' you just whisper, knowing you are his. You need not be reminded by the slight touch of the lead, hanging in his belt, ready for him to use if he thinks you are disobeying him. He is hot against your back, his skin almost burning against yours. His trousers, soft dark-brown leather, ride low on his hips, and even if you can see nothing but his hands (sensitive, long fingers, beautiful, beautiful) you know how good he looks, with a soft smile and his long hair in a pony tail. If they only knew, the men who send your lover appreciative glances, how he transforms, how he prowls, how brutal and needy and demanding he can be, and how gentle... No, only you can still his needs, his desires. It makes you smile, a rare smile. Only you.

 

Your hands dance over your lover's body. Lean muscles contrast the softness of the beautiful silken corset, bound so tightly around your lover's waist. His stomach is taut, not in any need of being tied in, the corset just underlines the shape that is already there. Thin fabric covers his groin and, as you rub against him, you let your hand slide down over silk so thin that it feels like a second skin over his erection. It arouses him, just like it arouses you, your cock stands proudly, so hard and long it reaches the edge of your trousers' lining. You move with the music, move to the rhythm, lost in the delicacy and the strength of the man you love.

Your world--the one that holds nothing but the two of you, despite the hundreds of dancing, drinking, laughing men--is disturbed for a moment. A tall, lovely blond approaches you. 'Do you share?' he asks you, a low whisper in your ear. 'Your pet is gorgeous.'

Severus hears it too, and his blush is making your cock throb even harder. 'He is not my pet,' you say. 'He is my lover. Mine.' The wolf threatens to overtake your mind, it is possessive when it comes to Severus Snape. Feral, golden eyes make the man startle and step back.

'A pity,' the man says, letting his eyes slide appreciatively over your mate. 'But I understand why. I wouldn't share, either, if he was mine.' Maybe the blond has seen the unspoken threat in your gaze because neither he, nor anybody else, dare approach you again.

Slowly you pull Severus with you to a darker corner, kissing him deeply before you, once more, turn him in your arms, his back against your chest. You look over his shoulder at the many handsome men on the dance floor. You can feel the wolf's possessiveness take over; an almost jealous feeling. He is your mate, and no one else is allowed to come close. No one can touch him! 'I want you now,' you say. ' _Now_.' You snarl and growl in his ear, there are words, but they disappear in the ferocious lust that is welling up inside you. 'Mine,' you state. 'Mine.'

He just leans back, searching for your mouth, and you bite and kiss and eat and take, because he is yours and you _want_ him! And it arouses you to know the power he has over you, over the wolf, because even the beast turns into a whimpering mess if he denies you. He rarely does, but the thought of it is enough. He is yours, as you are his, although you hold the lead, and he does not.

You murmur a spell against his neck since your need is urgent and the wolf inside you is roaring. A shiver goes through him, you know why: the slickness and the slight burn the spell causes has told everything of what is to come.

And you do what you promised him: you pull away the fabric of the silk knickers, ripping the lace a bit with your impatience. Hidden behind his back, you unbutton your trousers, releasing your erection. Then you cup his cheeks, rubbing your slick, ready cock against the crevice, against rough lace and soft silk and his wet, tight opening, barely uncovered.

Two young men, one fair, one dark, sitting, kissing in the darkness have realised what you are doing. 'Look at them,' you demand, and bite your lover's neck. 'I want to watch their faces when I fuck you.'

'Please, Remus,' he begs you. 'I'm...'

'Look at them,' you snarl, and pushes inside in the slick heat. 'I want them to see what it means to belong to me. I want them to see how much I long for you.'

'Oh,' Severus just says, and relaxes. 'But-'

'Shhh,' you whisper. 'Move with me.'

 

The sound of the bass is deep and heavy, throbbing with the rhythm of your bodies. It is simple, base music, urging you both to move, to dance, to get lost in the loud sound. But you don't dance. You make love. There, in the darkness, watching the hundreds of gorgeous men dance, you create your own world, your own beat, your own music. You sway, undulate your hips, follow his lead because there is no way you can't, impaled as you are on his cock. His arms are around you, his cock buried in your tight channel, his mouth on your neck.

In front of you, two young boys are watching you, wide-eyed and increasingly aroused. They kiss and watch, making you feel as if you are directing them, leading them to their own crescendo. You have never felt handsome or beautiful reflected in the eyes of others, but as your arousal spirals and Remus' breath become ragged and hot you suddenly see in their faces that you are. You can see what Remus sees when he tells you you are beautiful to him.

Behind you, Remus thrusts in harder, and the outside world disappears as he pushes in deep, then slides a hand into your silken knickers, stretched over your cock. You moan loudly, only the sound disappears in the music, only Remus hears it. He fucks you, fucks you until he cannot hold back and, shuddering from the release, he reaches for the metal eye in your collar. 'Mine,' he groans, hoarsely, and moves his hand faster over your erection, until you cannot resist him any longer, not that you want to. You lean back, and Remus' lips catch yours and your moans as you come. Splashes of warm semen is caught in your knickers, the slide of wet silk almost too much over your sensitised skin.

'Thank you,' he says, his voice soothes as you limply relaxes into his embrace, 'for the dance. We are going home now.'

You just nod, once. You would like that too, just to lie down and rest in your lover's arms.

 

There is music. Loud, throbbing music and quiet, almost silent melodies. There are rhythm and beat and drums. But nothing is like the rhythm of quiet breathing, the sound of a beating heart, the silent happiness that goes as a steady pulse through your days together. No lyrics can be more catching or beautiful than the little words whispered in your ear, just before sleep takes you, letting you drift away into the land of dreams. That, you are certain, is the true music, the kind you love to dance to.


End file.
